Broken
by DizzyDrea
Summary: When the confrontation finally comes, it's three am and it isn't pretty.


Title: Broken  
>Author: DizzyDrea<br>Summary: When the confrontation finally comes, it's three am and it isn't pretty.  
>Rating: T<br>Spoilers: 47 Seconds  
>Author's Notes: Yes, this is a post-47 Seconds story. No, it's not a particularly happy one. I've read a lot of those this week, but I wanted to look at the other side. What happens if it's not happily ever after? Apparently, this is what happens. It's angsty, and I have no idea if there's even a shred of hope in there, but you'd probably best have a tissue handy, just in case.<br>Disclaimer: Castle is the property of ABC, ABC Studios, Beacon Productions and a lot of other people who aren't me. I am doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

It's three am when the knocking starts. Mother and Alexis are safely tucked into bed, so he's not sure who would be banging to beat the band. He only hopes his neighbors don't want to kill him after this.

He shuffles across the loft, all rumpled clothes and bed-head hair, swinging the door open just as his late-night visitor raises a hand to pound on his door once more.

"Beckett?"

He can see her brows come together. She looks slightly confused, and it's a mark of just how out of it he is that it takes him a second to figure out why. He hasn't called her that in ages.

"Castle," she says. There's a pause, while they silently duke it out over who's going to break first. Apparently, she's not above caving, because she speaks first. "Can I come in?"

He's not sure that's a good idea, but he opens the door anyway. She brushes past him, and he watches her cross into the living room. She looks rumpled, too, like she's been tossing and turning in bed for hours.

He closes the door and follows her inside, stopping near the couch. They stand there, staring at each other across the room. Richard Castle, writer and part time police consultant. Kate Beckett, detective and muse.

He thinks he knows why she's there. It's been weeks since he watched her interrogating one of the suspects from the protest bombing. Every time he closes his eyes, he can hear her saying it. _I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it. _And every time he hears those words, he feels the stab in his chest like a fresh wound.

He's been pulling back, distancing himself from her, for weeks. She had to have noticed how he wasn't in her personal space anymore. Why it's taken her three weeks—and why it has to be dealt with at three am—is beyond him.

Which is probably why his tone is sharper than he'd planned when he finally speaks. "What do you want, Beckett?"

She flinches but stands her ground. He has to give her credit for that much, anyway.

"We need to talk," she says.

"And this couldn't have waited for, oh, I don't know, daylight?"

He can see the defiant lift of her chin at his words. So, no, not daylight. Right fucking now, three am be damned. Well, he could do that.

"What is wrong with you?" she snaps out, hands on hips, eyes flashing.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks. He takes a few steps forward, bringing them closer but not quite close enough to touch. "I'm not the one who's been lying all this time. So, no, this isn't on me."

"When have I lied to you?"

"When have you—really?" he asks. He's astonished.; that's the only word for it. "I heard you. You _remember_. You remember all of it. So don't tell me you've never lied to me."

She blanches. "You heard me?"

"I was watching you in the observation room," he says quietly. He's not any less angry, but he knows that yelling isn't going to help. They have to get this out in the open if he's going to be able to put it all behind him and move on. "I heard you tell Bobby that you remember every second of your shooting."

She runs a hand through her hair, gusting out a sigh. "I—" He can see her struggling, fighting to find the right words. Before, he might have stepped in to rescue her. But now… now he's hurting and he doesn't really want to make it that easy on her. "I wanted to tell you," she finally says, as if even those words were an effort.

"But you didn't," he says. "You let me believe that you cared. You let me believe that there was something between us."

"There was," she says, taking a step forward. "There is. Castle, I—"

"Whatever was between us must not have been that important if you couldn't even tell me the truth," he says, his voice hard.

And that's the bottom line. If he'd been important to her at all, if she'd loved him at all, she'd have told him long ago. Instead, she'd kept silent, letting him believe that she hadn't heard his declaration of love. He feels like a fool for believing that all she'd needed was more time.

"I'm… sorry, okay?" she says, forcing the words out, echoing his thoughts. "I was—I needed more time. To figure some things out. With my mother's murder, and then getting shot, I just—"

"No," he interrupts. "You don't get to use that as an excuse. We're all broken, Beckett. None of us is perfect, as you so often remind me."

She winces, but doesn't say anything for a few moments. There's silence in the loft. He thinks it's a miracle that his mother and Alexis haven't come charging down the stairs to find out what's wrong by now. But maybe that's a good thing. He's not sure he wants either of them to see the train wreck that this relationship has become.

"I heard what you said," she says after a few minutes. Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but it carries in the silent room. "I got scared, and I didn't know what to do. I've never been very good at this."

"Neither am I, but at least I was willing to try."

"God, Castle, could you make this any harder?"

"Could I—" He's pissed, and he knows she can see it in his face, but he doesn't care. "I loved you, Beckett. I'd have burned the world down for you. Do you get that?"

"And I love you, but I was so scared of just how much I love you," she shouts back. "I could drown in you, Castle, and be happy to go down for the third time. And that scares me to death."

They stare at each other for long minutes, the air crackling around them.

"So, where do we go from here?" she asks, tears pooling in her eyes.

He frowns. "I don't know."

"Is there—can we start over?"

"I don't know," he says again.

He knows it sounds like a cop-out, but it's not. He's honestly torn. He still loves her; that much he knows. And he's not sure that's going to change anytime soon. But he's been hurt, and this time it sliced through to the quick. He pulled back because he needed time to heal, and it's only been a few weeks, but even he's not stupid enough to believe that those few weeks were enough.

He's not sure if there's enough time in the world to get over Kate Beckett, and maybe that's the problem. His heart wants to cling to her confessions and never let go, but his head is finally making sense. He's got to protect himself, or else he'll just get hurt again and this time he might never recover.

"You said you needed time," he says. "Now it's my turn. I need time to figure out what I want."

Her voice is small when she speaks. "Will you still come to the precinct?"

"I haven't stopped yet," he says. "Whatever else happens, the work is important to me. I'm not going to let that go."

She nods, dashing at the tears that have spilled over onto her cheeks. He wants to go to her, wipe her tears away and just hold her, but that's the wrong thing to do. He feels like he's made of glass right now, and if she squeezed too hard, he'd break into a million tiny pieces that would cut him to death.

"Okay," she says with a tremulous smile. "Okay. I can do that. I can give you time."

He nods rather than answer.

Now the silence is awkward. They've talked, but they haven't really settled anything. It's like they're strangers again, unsure of how to move around each other.

"I should go."

She moves across the room, stopping beside him to take his hand. She gives it a squeeze, looking into his eyes as she does. He can see hope shining there; it's so fierce that it burns him. He looks away and tries not to notice the slump in her shoulders as he does. She squeezes his hand one more time, then leans in and pecks his cheek.

And then she's gone. He can hear the door close with a soft click. Whatever had been holding him up suddenly deserts him. He slumps onto the couch, burying his head in his hands. That had to be the single most awful conversation he's ever been through. Worse even than the two conversations that ended in divorce proceedings.

But suddenly, he's not alone. He feels arms slip around him, and a cool hand cradling his cheek. He can't hold it together anymore. He turns his head into his mother's shoulder and sobs.

"Oh, Richard," she says, stroking her hand up and down his back as the sobs wrack his body. "Just let it out. I've got you."

Martha Rodgers might not have been the best mother when he was growing up, but he's never been more grateful that she was _his_ mother than right now. He knows she desperately wants to fix this—what mother wouldn't?—but all she'll do is hold him and comfort him. Right now he's not too proud to admit that that's all he really wants.

Eventually he pulls back, wiping at his cheeks. He hasn't cried like this since he was a little kid. He'd be embarrassed except that this is his mother; she's seen him at his best and at his worst.

"Are you okay?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I haven't been okay for a while."

"Did you and Beckett—" she breaks off, clearly not sure how to put it.

"Break up?"

She smiles sardonically. "Yeah."

"I don't—I don't think so," he says. "But I don't know where we go from here."

"Take your time," she says, running her hand down his arm. "No need to rush. I don't think she's going anywhere."

"That used to be my line."

"And now the tables have turned."

"Yeah," he says, smiling wanly.

He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest unclench for the first time in weeks. Nothing's been settled, and he's not sure when it will be. But at least it's all out in the open, now.

"Come on, kiddo," she says, standing up and offering a hand to him. "Let's get you back to bed."

He takes her hand and lets her pull him up, dragging her into a hug. He drops a kiss into her hair. "Thank you, mother."

She pulls back, reaching up to swipe away one last tear. "Anything for you, sweetheart. You know that."

"Good night." He kisses her forehead, then heads off to his room. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but he's just tired enough that he hopes maybe his body will just disobey his mind and drop off anyway.

He feels less broken than he did an hour ago, so at least that's something. And as he waits for sleep to claim him, he wonders when his life got so complicated.

The day Kate Beckett walked into it, his mind helpfully supplies.

~Finis


End file.
